


Picking locks

by Quecksilver_Eyes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Also known as, Gen, bc dudley deserves better than these parents, harry is indian fight me, looking canon dead in the eye and shooting it, so does Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 09:53:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15264915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes
Summary: His mother is like gooey honey sticking to his fingers, smoothing out every crinkle in his uniform, fixing his tie whenever it loosens (locking the cupboard, banging doors, her fingers sharp, her mouth a constant frown) and Dudley is twelve years old when he first looks at his mother and feels like a fly.





	Picking locks

His mother is like gooey honey sticking to his fingers, smoothing out every crinkle in his uniform, fixing his tie whenever it loosens (locking the cupboard, banging doors, her fingers sharp, her mouth a constant frown) and Dudley is twelve years old when he first looks at his mother and feels like a fly. She sticks cherries on top of the cake that’s meant to impress his father’s business associate, humming quietly under her breath and telling Harry to go into his room like he’s told. Harry grabs a piece of bread and shrugs.

“Mum?“

“Yes, Diddykins?“ She wipes her hands with her apron and ruffles his hair.

“Why can’t Harry help?“

His mother clicks her tongue and caresses his cheek. “You shouldn’t worry about that, honey. Now, what do you have to do when our guests come?“

It only occurs to Dudley that she didn’t answer his question when Harry drops the cake on Mrs Mason’s head, a wild look on his face, his fingers like claws. Dudley’s father starts screaming and Harry grows even smaller than he already is. Dudley shifts in his seat. (the letter Harry gets makes it worse)

If his mother is honey, then his father is like fire licking at their skin, warm and calming and hot in Dudley’s guts (burning Harry’s dark skin and the scar on his face, yelling and fleeing all across the country from letters). Dudley stares at the batter and sugar on the floor and all over his mother’s good seat cushions and thinks about the Boa constrictor from a year ago.

It’s Harry’s birthday and no one has said a thing.

 

* * *

 

So, when his parents have gone to sleep, after bars have been put in front of Harry’s window and his mother has locked the door to his room, their faces in sneers, Dudley sneaks out of his room, worrying his hands. His mother’s keys hang next to the door and Dudley grabs them all, his hands sticky.

The fifth key fits into the keyhole and as he turns it he can hear the rustling of sheets. He opens the door. Harry is clutching his wand, the blanket bunched up at his feet. “What are you doing here?“, he asks, his voice a quiet whisper and Dudley shrugs.

“I stole mum’s keys“, he says and closes the door behind himself. Harry furrows his brows. The owl in the cage hoots and Dudley turns his head to look at it. It’s a snow owl, fluffing its feathers and snapping its beak at him.

“What’s his name?“, he asks. Harry doesn’t lower his wand.

“Hedwig“, he says, his voice thick with sleep.

“She looks uncomfortable in there.“

“You think?“

Dudley worries his lower lip between his teeth and tosses the keys from one hand to another. “I don’t have a birthday present for you“, he says finally and Harry laughs. Dudley elbows him in the ribs.

“No, I mean, I just realised that I’ve never given you a birthday present.“ He runs his hands over the keys. “And neither have mum or dad.“

Harry says nothing.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Dudley grabs the spare change from the jar in the kitchen and the telephone book and walks all the way to Collinson Road until he finds a phone box.

After three rings, his religion teacher picks up. “This is Mrs Langford speaking, who’s there?“

“Hi, this is, erm, Dudley Dursley.“

Silence. Dudley shifts his weight from one foot to another. “You had me in second period on Monday this year? I’m in class with Piers Polkiss?“

“Oh!“ A laugh. “Yes, of course, how can I help you?“

“You said last year that if we had any hypothe-“, he frowns, “hypothetitical, no that’s not it either-“

“Hypothetical questions?“ She sounds amused and Dudley nods.

“Yes that! I have one! So, say someone had -“, he hesitates, “- abilities that could hurt people, and he went to a school studying these abilities, is it the responsible thing to do to lock him in a room?“ He thinks of Harry’s thin fingers and of the owl in her cage.

Mrs Langford hums. “How old is this hypothetical person?“

“As old as me.“ He twirls the cord between his fingers.

“Well, has he ever used these abilities to willingly hurt someone?“

Dudley thinks of regrown hair and disappearing glass and Harry’s head in a headlock, thinks of Piers’ smug grin. “No“, he says.

“Dudley, I don’t know what this is for but please know that if there’s a problem you need to tell an adult, preferably your parents.“

Dudley’s father’s face grows red when he screams at Harry, grabs his arms and watches him squirm and his mother’s voice is rotten honey and Dudley rests his head against the glass. “Yes“, he says. “I will.“

“Dudley“, Mrs Langford says slowly. “What school does your cousin go to?“

Dudley hangs up. (He has ten pounds left. Enough to buy a lock pick.)

 

* * *

 

“Happy late birthday“, he says and hands Harry a box when he sneaks into his room again. Harry hasn’t drawn his wand this time.

(They let Hedwig out of the cage and Dudley runs downstairs to get Harry something to eat and Dudley feels a little less sticky when Harry smiles at him.)


End file.
